


Preposterous Cycle

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Infidelity, M/M, Trauma, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 02:32:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7149122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s hot like hell and you’d be hard pressed to find a place other than Texas that could accurately be described as just that. Tires are melting into the sidewalk and so are you, with your back pressed into the hot asphalt of the roof of your apartment building. It sears your back, hot enough to burn you if you didn’t have a thin layer of fabric between you and it. The only shade and, consequently, forgiveness on the flat expanse of the roof is the hard shadow of your brother over you, his finger digging into the skin of your jaw. </p><p>You’re aware that the edge of his katana is brushing against the soft hollow of your neck, and you wish it was sharper, that he’d press down harder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preposterous Cycle

**Author's Note:**

> This is minimally edited, and had been sitting in my documents for too long. So I finished it.

“What’s so great about kinky shit anyways?” A certain bucktoothed, raven haired boy proposed this question to you after a few drinks and a couple episodes of some obscure series on Netflix. He’s wrapped around you like a cat, his head against the your chest and fingers playing with the loop of your belt. 

“It’s hard to explain,” you reply, and it is, for all intents and purposes. “Sex is like a dance, and Egburp, I don’t think someone with two left-feet such as yourself could ever understand the magnificent tango it can really be.” Oh, how those eyebrows shot up, along with half John’s torso, as if the very act had lightened the boy’s body.

“I don’t have two left feet! What does that even mean?” He questioned, hard pressed for answers. You pause a moment, lips quirking. “It means some people like dances a little more complicated than others. Some are into just the basic bump n’ grind,” you elbow him softly, knowingly. “And other’s are into cha-chas for Olympians.” 

John grunted at the nudge and his lips are twitching into a toothy grin. “Oh, are you into cha-chas for Olympians?” You’d ruffle his hair and kiss his forehead, just so he doesn’t have to see the sudden swarm of a memory in your eyes.

“Used to be. But I’m not much of a dancer at all anymore.”  
-

It’s hot like hell and you’d be hard pressed to find a place other than Texas that could accurately be described as just that. Tires are melting into the sidewalk and so are you, with your back pressed into the hot asphalt of the roof of your apartment building. It sears your back, hot enough to burn you if you didn’t have a thin layer of fabric between you and it. The only shade and, consequently, forgiveness on the flat expanse of the roof is the hard shadow of your brother over you, his finger digging into the skin of your jaw. 

You’re aware that the edge of his katana is brushing against the soft hollow of your neck, and you wish it was sharper, that he’d press down harder.

“Do you yield?” He asks and you know what you’re supposed to say, but you don’t just so you get to see the disappointment in his eyes. You’re 17 years old and you’ve seen that look more times then you can count and you’ve never been able to explain the pressure in your chest that accompanies it.

It’s kinda like whiskey, feels like a hug going in but burns on the way down.

He knows you know, what exactly comes after this. 

You don’t exactly remember when it started, but you do know you wish there wasn’t an expiration date. Who would want to give up the feeling of pleasure leaking through your veins, the way he “punishes” you when you both finally manage to haul ass downstairs. His hand is hot on your ass as is the leather of his gloves as they cut into your skin and- oh. You almost forget to count the strike that lands across your ass as you yelp the number out.

“Two!” There’s something wet leaking from the corners of your eyes but you know you have to get through this to get to the good on the other side.

The other side comes around at around 5 strikes and in the form of his mouth on the side of your neck when he lets you sit up (though you can’t really sit as much as you can perch on the tops of his thigh). It makes you gasp, mouth wide like a fish out water and palms brace against his shoulders.

The futon makes a loud, jarring noise of protest when he falls back with you, but you think you’ve heard the thing creak enough for it to cancel out, because you’re much more focused on the way he seems hell-bent on making you black and blue. His teeth sink into your shoulder, and your heart rising in your throat, with a hiccup of pain that accompanies it. It’s another bruise you have no idea how to explain, not to your friends nor to your teachers, but it feels better now than it will later. For now that’s all that matters.

You think you know why this started, why this happened. Maybe it’s because you’re Striders and no one understands you better than another Strider, no one can keep pace with a Strider but a Strider. It’s a preposterous cycle and he always swears it’s his fault, but personally you think it’s yours. 

The way he slides into you always reminds you why you do this, and you make sure to remind him too, making a noise that has his hands tighten on your hips, and another mark forming on your throat. He gasps into your shoulder when you take over for him, bouncing against him with a need akin to desperation. He says you move like you were born to do this, but you say it’s merely a matter of practice.

Bro fucks you into the futon, praising you when you don’t scream, and wrapping his hands around your throat when you do. You feel a wash of cathartic pleasure when you finish together and he tells you he’s proud. It’s all you’ve ever wanted, everyday, to hear those words.

The preposterous cycle continues until you move out at 19, and a little ways after that. Sometimes you show up at his work, weave your way through the hot, heavy bodies of the dance floor to his booth, where he’s dropping beats and piecing together an atmosphere heavy enough to choke on and a tension thick enough to cut. The door is always unlocked, and they never try to stop you from going into the DJ booth like they stop the others.

Bro effortlessly mixes your moans and gasps into his beats, and no one ever notices that those songs never play again after you leave for the night. It always gives you a heady rush, seeing what the dance floor dissolves into when he has your hips pressed to the table, and your head shoved against the darkened glass. 

21, and for the first time, you find the door locked. It’s unexpected, and at the same time, you knew this wouldn’t last forever. It’d been a 6 year tango, and even though he always told you he couldn’t do this forever, that you couldn’t stay with him, that one day you’d find someone else. Turns out that you didn’t find someone else, but he did. 

Some tramp with blonde hair and black lipstick, and moans that weren't’ nearly as good as yours.

You stopped answering his calls, and stopped coming home. The excuses you found in his voice-mails were mediocre, and the courage you tried to scrounge up to be angry with him was just as mediocre. He begged you to come home, and for every voicemail he left, you stayed another week in whatever couch you found to crash on.

In the end it’s your fault. He swears it’s his, but it’s yours. You’re a coward, and he was right as he usually was. Nothing is forever, definitely not a relationship you formed when you were 16 and just desperately wanted your brother to notice you. You consider yourself lucky it lasted as long as it did.

Time goes on and he forgets about you. The calls stop coming, and you promise you don’t miss the sound of his voice (you do). You never go home, and instead, you move to Washington, and meet your childhood friend for the first time. He’s everything you wish you were, brave, confident, and completely beautiful. He doesn’t care that you don’t talk about your family or where you came from, or that you refuse to have sex with him or anyone. You stay up until 4 in the morning talking about nothing and everything, and you let him beat you in video games just to see him rub it in your face.

The only time you go home is when you’re 25, and married, and you bring John with you. Nothing has changed, nor has your brother moved. It almost scares you how eerily the same everything appears, and you only cry once, perched on the curb outside your apartment complex while John rubs your back. 

Bro looks different, older, more tired, and when he sees you he smiles, something you’ve never seen before. You almost cry right there and then, but John’s hand is on your back and it gives you strength you never had before. He invites you in, and you eat shitty Chinese food together and talk about The Mummy Returns, and absolutely nothing you came here prepared to talk about.

Before you leave, and after John has exited the apartment, your brother pulls you in for a hug. He tells you he’s proud of you and you somehow find the words to tell him that you know.

The preposterous cycle ends when you shut the door behind you, and John asks you if you’re ready to go home.

-

“Mm.” John says, bumping his head against your chin and shuts the TV off with the remote before slinging it away. “Can’t imagine you as the dancing type. But then again, you are more coordinated than me, aren’t you?” He asks, contemplatively.

“Infinitely more so.” You say snarkily as he knocks his drink over.


End file.
